


Chicken Soup

by mresundance



Series: Things We Said [7]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, hannibal is a big baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal gets the flu, and Will goes on a shopping expedition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt: things you said over the phone.
> 
>  
> 
> [Originally posted here.](http://mresundance.tumblr.com/post/130654454872/4-with-hannibal-and-will)

"No, they don't have star anise."

Will sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sun was scathingly bright, glinting off the waters of the canals, the narrow little buildings and the cobbled streets. Too bright, in Will's estimation; he was used to Amsterdam being a moody, cloud-blighted city, with mere splashes of cheerfulness. This was altogether too much, and the sunshine grated on to him. And Hannibal being, well, _Hannibal_ certainly didn't help matters.

"No, Hannibal," Will pinched the bridge of his nose. _Lord, grant me strength,_ he thought, even if he didn't believe in God.

It was incredible, how a man who was so pridefully, elegantly, and arrogantly self-sufficient, who swanned through the word as if everything were completely under his control, who had no qualms about breaking a man's neck or disemboweling and then eating that man -- could be reduced to a trembling, nauseous, feverish huddle of blankets.

"You're human after all," Will had said on the first morning Hannibal had the flu. Hannibal had not even dignified Will's remark with an answer. The only time he left the bed that first day was to vomit.

For the three days since, Will had been fighting Hannibal, trying to coax him into drinking more water and ginger ale, and then to eat the toast and pudding he made. Every time, Hannibal had gone squinty-eyed and feral. He'd nearly bitten Will's fingers off on a few occasions. _Oh, he would have enjoyed that_ , Will thought grimly the other night, daubing the bloody teeth marks in his thumb.

It had only gotten worse as Hannibal recuperated. Now he reclined upon their little couch as if he were a goddamn king -- emperor, even -- and expected Will to wait on him. This included going down the local farmer's market to procure goods for the chicken soup Hannibal wanted -- no, _required_ \-- Will to make for him.

Never mind if procuring said goods would have meant leaving the country. It wasn't a bad idea, all things considered.

" _No._ Hannibal.No -- would you just _listen_? They don't -- they don't _have that_ \--"

Will rolled his eyes at the nearby stall-keeper, while Hannibal kept talking. Something about Will not appreciating the psychological and gastrointestinal aspects of healing . . .

"Wife?" the stall-keeper asked.

Will sighed.

The stall-keeper grunted in solidarity.

"No, they _don't_ have silkie chicken," Will said. "Why the _hell_ would they have a silkie chicken? This is a _farmer's_ market. They sell _normal_ chickens that they raised in their back yards --" Will stopped and exhaled.

"Yes," he said. " _All right_."

"My wife does the same thing," the stall-keeper grumbled. "She sends me on errands and then calls to ask what I bought, and tells me what's wrong with it."

"Right?" Will responded. And then: "No, _Hannibal,_ I wasn't. No. Could you -- why don't I just buy some stuff for _normal_ chicken soup?"

A long, long pause. The stall-keeper's eyebrows wrinkled sympathetically.

And with a drowsy burst of clarity, Will realized: _this is Paris all over again._

It would be far, far worse than Paris, though, because this market was _definitely_ less fancy.

Will didn't want to relive that incident, so he started hissing into his mobile phone.

"Hannibal? Han -- Hannibal," he said with obviously faux alarm, before making more hissing and crackling sounds. "You're -- you're breaking up. Can you -- hear -- me? Can you -- oh hell," Will said."Dropped the call," he hung up.

The shopkeeper grinned. "My wife would kill me if I did that."

"Yeah, well. Mine is not in a position to complain," Will shrugged. "Do you have chicken?"

* * *

Hannibal stared at his empty bowl of soup as though he would cry.

"It was . . . good," Hannibal sniffed, with as much ambivalent indignance as a man in his pajamas and with a blanket draped over his shoulders could muster.

"Though it was slightly . . . I _do_ appreciate you made the stock from scratch. But thyme . . . thyme is not my preference."

Will snorted. He collected their bowls and took them to the sink, before returning to clear the silverware.

"You're _welcome_ ," he said, kissing Hannibal on the top of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> [More than 90 % of the folks in Holland speak English conversationally](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_in_the_Netherlands). It would be unusual of the stall-keeper _didn’t_ speak English.


End file.
